


Mistakes Were Made

by lenin_it_to_win_it



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: (aka two promises), F/M, So here we are, and of course erik is a crybaby bitch in this, because sometimes i get tired of writing Slightly Less Dumb Fluff, christine loving and caring for her sewer goblin husband, i would give you nothing less, more dumb fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 15:23:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17449538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenin_it_to_win_it/pseuds/lenin_it_to_win_it
Summary: Christine decides to make a shawl to surprise Erik, but she ends up giving him a second gift that neither of them is prepared for.





	Mistakes Were Made

Erik was a terrible liar.

  
  
“I’m not cold,” he said through chattering teeth. “I’m fine.”

 

Christine was unconvinced. “You’re shivering, my dear,” she replied, giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek before attempting to massage some warmth into his icy hands. “I’ve told you before, your room is far too cold. You lock yourself in there for hours, and you’re always freezing when you come out.” 

 

“My dear,” Erik echoed dreamily. “My dear Christine. My wife.” 

 

Christine tried not to smile— she was supposed to be scolding Erik, after all— but she couldn’t help it. “Is that all you heard?” 

 

“Erik listens.” 

 

“Then what did I say about your room?” Christine asked, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“Your voice is beautiful, my wife, my angel.” 

 

“Erik, that is _not_ what I asked.” 

  
“It _is_ beautiful,” Erik repeated with stubborn petulance. “The most beautiful sound in all creation.” He paused, avoiding Christine’s eyes. “Sometimes, it is so beautiful, in fact, that your Erik is so transfixed, so overwhelmed with rapturous adoration for his wondrous Christine that he. . . does not always recall precisely what it is she is saying.” He chanced a peek at Christine’s face, then, taking in her less-than-impressed expression, quickly looked away. “Only sometimes, you know. Seldom, actually. Quite seldom. Almost never.” 

 

Christine laughed. “You’re ridiculous.” She leaned forward and kissed Erik’s cheek. “But only sometimes.” She kissed his other cheek. “You’re _always_ mine, and I will always love you.” Erik’s eyes filled with tears, and Christine let go of his hands only so she could throw her arms around him, so she could hold as much of him as possible. She tucked her head beneath his sharp chin, nuzzling against his neck. “One day, I’ll be able to say that without making you cry,” she whispered, speaking more to herself than to Erik. 

 

Erik sniffled. “We shall see about that.” 

 

“But, first, we’ll see if we can get you warmed up a bit, you poor thing,” said Christine, drawing back and taking Erik’s hands again. They were slightly warmer than they had been, but still cool to the touch. “I don’t see how you can stand it, being so cold.” 

 

“I hardly notice it while I’m composing, alone.” Erik watched Christine knead his hands, almost but not quite smiling. “It is not until I am with you that I am aware of such things. But then you touch me, and your skin is very warm, very warm and very soft. . .” Erik’s voice trailed away for a moment, and when he spoke again, it was with a note of sadness. “And mine is very cold. I imagine it feels most unpleasant to you.” 

 

Christine lifted one of Erik’s hands to her lips and kissed it, smiling. “You have a very active imagination, my dear.” 

 

“So. . . it does not upset you?” Erik ventured, a nervous spark of hope in his eyes. “It does not. . . disgust you, when Erik’s hands are so cold? You can bear to touch him, even so?”

 

It was a silly thing to ask, when Christine had already been holding his hands for several minutes, but Christine did not treat it like a silly question. “When your hands are cold, I only want to make them warmer, so you’ll be more comfortable,” she said, giving Erik’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Of course I’m not upset with you.” 

 

Erik let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Erik worries sometimes, you know.”

 

“I know.” Christine said no more aloud, but she sighed internally. She knew that Erik loved her, but he did not know how to trust her. He doubted her love when she gave him no reason to, and there were times when Christine found it hard not to take offense. Still, she loved Erik enough to be patient with him.

 

“And you worry, too,” said Erik. His voice was calm, but his face, as expressive as it was hideous, was twisted into a grimace. “About me. I wish you wouldn’t.” 

 

“Well, you should take better care of yourself, then,” Christine chided. “Then I wouldn’t have to.” Deciding that Erik’s hands were as warm as they were going to get— his skin always held a slight chill, despite Christine’s best efforts—she let go. “There you are, darling. Is that better?”

 

Erik nodded, but his eyes lingered on Christine’s hands. “Oh, yes,” he said in such a melancholic tone that Christine couldn’t help but giggle. “Much better.”  
  
“Do you want me to hold your hands again, Erik?” she asked, a playful lilt to her voice. 

 

Erik frowned. “Are you teasing me?”

 

“Oh, of course not!” Christine exclaimed. “If I was teasing you, I would flutter my eyelashes at you, like so,” she said, batting her eyelashes. 

 

Erik swallowed. “I see.” 

 

“And I would get very close to you, like this. . .” Christine leaned toward Erik, only stopping when their lips were almost close enough to touch. Erik whimpered, and Christine took his face in her hands and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. “And then I would kiss you, just like that,” she whispered, smiling. “Because I love you with all my heart, and I would _never_ tease you about that.”   


 

Erik bit his lip, but Christine could still tell it was quivering. “Oh, Christine. . .” He stared up at the ceiling as if willing his rising tears to sink back into his eyes. “Today is not that day,” he said suddenly. “I will cry.” 

 

And cry he did. 

 

When Erik finally calmed down, Christine started to discuss methods of keeping warm while composing. “Why don’t you wear a blanket over your shoulders?” she suggested, after Erik insisted that additional layers of clothing, like a cloak or a warmer jacket, would obstruct his arm movements. 

 

Erik snorted. “I cannot wear a blanket.”   
  
“Well, what about a shawl, then?”

 

Christine had expected Erik to argue that shawls were women’s clothing, but instead his only objection was: “Erik does not have a shawl.”  


 

“What if you did have one?” Christine asked, excited to have found a possible solution. A shawl would not keep his hands warm, of course, but it might at least keep him from shivering. “Would you wear it?”

 

“I would not have anything I would not wear.” 

  
Erik’s reply was cryptic and held little affirmation; Christine decided to take it as a yes. Now, all she needed to do was find a shawl. She could have gone out and bought one, but, after a moment’s consideration, Christine decided to make it herself. She liked to imagine Erik being warmed and comforted by something she had made while he wrote and played his extraordinary music. 

 

Christine was prepared to jump into action immediately, but, first, she had to make a momentous decision. 

 

“ _What color should I make it in?_ ” Christine thought. “ _Well, certainly not in black. . ._ ”

 

Everything Erik owned seemed to be either black or some dreary shade of dark grey, aside from his white shirts. The last thing he needed was anymore funereal black garments. 

  
What about red? Red could be a warm, cheerful color. Then Christine recalled Erik’s Red Death costume and opted against it with a shudder. She had gotten quite enough of him in red. 

 

Christine thought of colors that might be suitable— forest green, perhaps, or a lovely deep blue— and more fanciful options, like pink and lilac, before deciding to simply ask Erik. 

 

“What colors do I like?” Erik repeated, furrowing his brow. “Under what circumstances?”

 

“What do you mean?” Christine asked, somewhat put out by Erik’s confusing response to her straightforward question. 

  
“There are certain scenarios where some colors are more apt than others,” said Erik with an air of stating the obvious. “Blue is a suitable color for one’s eyes, but not for one’s skin. It’s a sign of asphyxiation, or frostbite, and impending death.”   


  
Christine shuddered. “There’s no need to be so morbid.” Leave it to Erik to make a simple conversation into a gruesome discussion of death and decay.   


  
“It was only an example.” said Erik, frowning. “But I can give you one that _doesn’t_ involve the inevitability of death, if you wish,” he offered in a reconciliary tone. 

 

“Please, do.” Christine could not keep a note of weariness from entering her voice. 

 

“Yellow is a very good color for a canary, but if the stem of a flower is turning yellow, then the plant is going to— ah.” Erik cut himself off with an embarrassed glance at Christine. “Death again. Erik is sorry.”

  
  
“Do you like canaries, Erik?” Christine asked, eager to change the subject. “I’ve heard they make wonderful pets.” 

 

“Erik has never had one. He would not know.” The disappointment on Christine’s face must have made Erik feel guilty, because he quickly added, “Although I _did_ own a parrot, back in Persia.” 

  
  
“Really?” Christine’s interest was piqued. Erik’s past was a difficult subject for many reasons; Christine avoided questioning him about it if she could, and Erik seemed just as eager not to talk about it. The rare details he did divulge always caught Christine’s attention. The idea of Erik owning a parrot was especially intriguing. She wanted to hear more about it, but she was afraid to ask any questions, not knowing which answers would be fraught with horror. 

  
“ _Where did you get it from?_ ” Christine imagined herself asking. 

  
  
“ _From a man I murdered with my lasso, of course!_ ” The imaginary Erik replied. “ _I killed him and all six of his children. Then I strangled the parrot.”_

 

But Erik only said, “Oh, yes.” His voice was calm, and his expression was almost a smile. “A very clever bird. I taught him to insult the daroga in eight different languages.” 

 

“I didn’t realize you knew eight languages,” said Christine, although this information did not surprise her, given Erik’s brilliant mind. 

 

“Nine, actually.” Erik shrugged. “But he didn’t take to German.” 

 

The conversation left Christine with far more questions than answers, as conversations with Erik often did, and gave her no clue as to what color shawl Erik would prefer She decided to make it in yellow, since even Erik’s gruesome imagination had not associated it with anything worse than withered flowers.

 

***

 

Christine held the finished shawl up to the light, admiring her handiwork. The cheerful, sunny shade of yellow she had chosen could not be more incongruous with Erik’s grim solemnity; the contrast made Christine smile to herself whenever it came to mind. Still, it was very well-made, thick and soft, and more than capable of combatting the chill in Erik’s room. Erik might not approve of the color, but he could not object to the craftsmanship. 

 

Erik was currently out running mysterious “errands”— Christine never asked for further elaboration, fearing the answers she might receive— but he had promised to return no later than six. Christine was planning to present him with the shawl after dinner, before he had a chance to retreat into his room. However, it was still early in the afternoon, so she had to wait a few hours, first.

 

After carefully hiding the shawl in her bedroom where Erik wouldn’t find it, Christine flew up the stairs that led out of the cellars and ran outside, savoring the feeling of sunlight on her skin. The sky was a pure, unclouded blue that even Erik might hesitate to compare to frostbitten flesh, and the spring air smelled fresh and new. There was a slight coolness on the breeze, but it was much warmer than it had been underground.

 

Christine began to walk around with no clear destination in mind until she found herself at the market. She wandered through stalls and shops with the same pleasant aimlessness, occasionally stopping to examine a basket of fruit or some flowers. She was studying a bouquet of roses with a smile— they reminded her of the roses Erik always gave her after performances— when she was distracted by a loud squawk. 

 

An older man walked past, struggling to carry an ornate but weathered bronze birdcage. Inside the cage was the most hideous bird Christine had ever laid eyes on. It was a large, old-looking grey parrot with torn feathers and a single eye. It looked at Christine and let out another resounding squawk. “Hey, ugly! Look here, ugly! What are you looking at, ugly?” 

 

The man gave Christine an apologetic grimace. “I am sorry,” he said, his French halting and heavily accented. “He is very rude bird.” He gave the cage a little shake. “Bad bird!”

 

“Bad bird, bad bird!” The parrot let out a shriek that sounded like a laugh before launching into an unsavory ditty it must have picked up from a sailor. 

 

The man shook his head. “I will be happy when you’re gone.” 

 

“Oh, is he for sale?” Christine asked, surprising even herself with the amount of enthusiasm in her voice.

 

“For free!” The man exclaimed, thrusting the cage at Christine. “Take him! I cannot keep! He picks fights with my wife’s cat, he bites the children, and he screams forever!”

 

“ _What a glowing endorsement,_ ” Christine thought, casting a curious glance at the parrot, who responded by attempting to bite at her through the bars of its cage. “ _This bird sounds like a very disagreeable little creature. . ._ ” 

 

Unsavory as the parrot seemed, Christine would be lying to herself if she said it did not remind her of Erik. Besides, he _had_ mentioned owning a parrot once. . .

 

“I’ll take him,” said Christine. 

 

The man’s face lit up. “Thank you so much!” Christine reached for the cage, but he pulled back. “No, no I will carry wherever you need. No charge, no charge!”  
  
“Thank you, monsieur.” Christine was relieved; she hadn’t considered how she was going to carry the cage all the way back to the opera house. Of course, she would still have to bring it down into the cellars on her own, but she was sure she could manage that much alone. 

 

“Are you sure you want it here?” The man asked with a doubtful glance at the Palais Garnier when Christine asked for the cage. “You do not want it at home?”

 

“Oh, it’s not for me,” said Christine, thinking quickly. “It’s for, um, an opera. We need a parrot for one of our productions.” 

 

The man nodded, convinced, and departed with a few more words of gratitude for Christine and insults directed at the parrot.

 

The cage was heavier than Christine expected, but she managed to carry it through the hidden entrance before pausing to take a break. She set the cage down and leaned against a wall to catch her breath, eyeing the stairs with silent despair. Her arms ached already, but she had much further to go. Sighing, Christine picked up the cage again. “Are you ready to go home, little bird?”

 

“Ready to go home?” The parrot repeated mockingly. “Go home? Ugly home! Ugly, ugly, ugly!” 

 

The bird continued to shriek and chatter for the rest of the journey, and Christine began to seriously regret her impulsive decision. 

  
  
“ _What was I thinking?_ ” she lamented to herself. “ _What will Erik have to say about this?_ ”

  
  
Christine had reached the house, but she hesitated on the doorstep. What if Erik was upset with her for bringing a strange animal into his home? It was not yet six; there was still time to take the parrot away before Erik returned. Christine could take the bird _away_ , but she had nowhere to take it _to_. 

 

Shaking her head, Christine opened the door. It was too late for regrets. Hopefully, Erik would not be too upset by her foolishness. 

 

“ _At least I should have a little time before he comes back_ ,” thought Christine. “ _I’ll be able to think of some way to explain myself. . ._ ” 

 

“Christine!”  


 

Christine nearly dropped the birdcage in shock. “Erik!” she exclaimed, trying not to sound guilty. “You came back early.”

  
Erik had heard the door open and came running out of his room, intense relief shining in his eyes, but his expression quickly shifted into one of hurt at Christine’s tone. “And you are upset by this?”

  
  
“Not upset,” Christine rushed to reassure him. “It was just unexpected. That’s all.”

  
  
“Unexpected. . .” Christine expected Erik to bring up the birdcage, but instead he said, “It was unexpected when I arrived here and you were nowhere to be found, my wife.” He spoke calmly, but his hands shook, and his eyes began to fill with tears. “I did not know where you had gone.”

 

Christine cursed herself for not thinking to leave a note, but she couldn’t help but be a bit frustrated by Erik’s irrational paranoia. Did he _really_ think she would leave him like that? Did he really have so little faith in her? Still, Christine’s voice was gentle when she said, “I only went to the market, dear. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

 

“Well, you are here here now,” Erik sighed, dragging his knuckles across his eyes. “Erik will not worry any longer.” 

 

“Erik!” The parrot yelled, pouncing on the unfamiliar syllables with fiendish delight. “Erik!” 

 

Erik froze, seemingly noticing the birdcage for the first time. “Christine,” he said in a very slow, measured way. “What, pray tell, is that?”

 

Christine held up the cage with a sheepish grin. “A surprise?” 

 

“Surprise, surprise!” The bird hollered before letting out a wicked burst of laughter. “Ready to go home! Go home, Erik! Go home!” 

 

“Why. . .” Erik started to make a gesture with one hand before letting his arm fall at his side. Christine had never seen him at such a loss for words. “How did you find this. . . creature?”

  
  
“It was given to me by a man at the market.”

  
  
“A man?” A note of jealousy crept into Erik’s voice. “Was it a gift, then? Was he an admirer of your singing?” 

  
  
“I am not in the habit of accepting birds from my admirers, Erik,” Christine replied, rolling her eyes. “I simply met a man in the market who was looking to get rid of a parrot, and I relieved him of it.” 

 

Erik shook his head, trying to regain his composure. “But why?” he asked. “Christine, if you wanted a pet, I would have gotten one for you. A canary, perhaps, a sweet little songbird. . . certainly, I could have found you something less. . .” He squinted at the parrot in appraisal. “. . . mangy.” 

 

The parrot made an indignant squawk. “Mangy Erik! Go home, mangy Erik! Go home, ugly! Go home!” 

 

Christine’s eyes widened. “You stop that,” she hissed at the parrot, as if it would heed her commands. “You. . . be nice!”  


 

“Ugly Erik!” said the unrepentant bird, ruffling its mangled feathers with pride. “Ugly, ugly, ugly!” 

 

“Erik, I— I’m sorry,” Christine stammered. Erik stared at the parrot, expressionless. “I’ll find someone else who can take it,” Christine continued, overcome with guilt. “I never should have brought it here. I’m so—”

 

Erik laughed. “What a vile little rogue you are!” he said to the parrot, smiling. “Ugly, mangy? Is that all you know?” He reached out to stroke the parrot’s head, and it tried to nip at his finger. “Oh, you poor thing,” said Erik, still amused. “Erik will have to give you a few vocabulary lessons, will he not? You wretched horror. . .” 

 

“Horror!” The bird echoed cheerfully. “Ugly horror!” 

 

Erik laughed again. “Yes, that’s you!” He mimicked the bird’s voice. “My ugly little horror!”

 

Christine was stunned. She couldn’t recall _ever_ hearing Erik laugh, nor had she ever seen him smile for so long. “You. . . you aren’t upset?” she managed to ask. 

  
  
“Why would I be upset?” Erik sounded surprised by the question. “It’s only a bird, Christine. Your Erik is not so terribly childish that he would take offense at the words of a parrot.” Before Christine could argue, Erik began talking to the bird. “Especially not one so ghastly as this,” he cooed. “Not when he’s so detestably hideous! Yes, he is! Yes, he is!” Erik’s eyes lit up with a sudden spark of malevolent glee. “I have to write the daroga at once. He’ll _hate_ this!” He moved as if preparing to head for his room, then paused, glancing back at Christine. “But dinner first,” he said in a softer tone. “A lovely dinner for my lovely Christine, my precious wife, my angel, who is so very good to me.”

 

“Oh, Erik.” Sometimes, Christine could get a little exasperated by Erik’s excessive flattery, but she was so taken by his sudden cheerfulness that she couldn’t help but smile. “I love you.” 

 

Erik grew tense for a moment, but he did not burst into tears. “I love you, too.” 

  
  
Christine set the birdcage down so she could throw her arms around Erik. “You didn’t cry!” she exclaimed. She was so happy and proud— it was all she could do not to suffocate him. “You’re doing so well, Erik! I love you so much!” Hypocritical tears filled Christine’s eyes, but she couldn’t bear to let go of Erik long enough to wipe them away.

 

“You— stop this at once!” Erik tried to sound fierce and forbidding, but he was helpless, and Christine knew it.“If Erik is not supposed to cry, Christine cannot cry, either!” he protested, clearly blinking back tears. “You cannot— you shouldn’t—” A single tear slid down Erik’s cheek, and he snarled in frustration. “Damn it!”   


  
“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!” The parrot chorused from the doorway. 

 

Christine nestled closer to Erik. After a moment, she felt his arms tentatively wrap around her waist.

 

“Christine is not upset with me for crying, then?” 

 

Christine shook her head. “Of course not.” She hopped onto her tiptoes to give Erik a kiss on the cheek. “Although I’d much rather see you smile than cry. You have such a wonderful smile— you do!” Christine insisted as Erik opened his mouth to protest. “And I won’t hear you say a word against yourself.” 

 

“Go home, ugly!” shrieked the parrot.

 

Christine sighed. “Especially not when you’re already being insulted by a bird.” 

 

Erik did not argue, though Christine knew he was unconvinced. Still, he seemed content enough to let Christine hold him as the parrot continued to holler insults at the top of his lungs. When Christine finally let go, Erik took a step back. “I’ll make dinner now.”

 

“I’ll help,” Christine offered.

  
“You will _not._ ” Christine could tell from Erik’s tone that this was not an argument he would let her win. “Erik will do it alone.” He gave Christine a gentle pat on the head. “It is the least he can do for his wife, after she has so graciously brought a mangy old bird into our home.” 

 

Christine frowned, convinced Erik was teasing her, but she acquiesced, letting Erik head to the kitchen alone while she tried to find a suitable place to put the birdcage. Once the parrot had been relocated and dinner had been eaten, Christine told Erik to wait at the table while she ran to get something from her room. 

 

“It’s a surprise,” she told him. “But I’m afraid it isn’t very impressive, compared to _that_ surprise,” she added, shaking her head as she glanced back at the parrot. 

 

“Erik will be impressed with any surprise his Christine would like to give him,” Erik said, his warm, reassuring voice at odds with his somewhat nervous expression. Christine must have looked concerned, because Erik immediately turned away and pretended to be deeply engrossed in watching the parrot peck at the vegetables he had slotted through the bars of its cage. “Erik is fine. Go on.” 

 

Christine took Erik’s hand and gave it a soft squeeze. “I’ll be right back.” When she returned, holding the shawl behind her back, Erik was still staring at the birdcage. “Close your eyes,” she ordered. Erik obeyed, holding perfectly still as Christine began to drape the shawl around his shoulders. She kissed the back of his head, eliciting a soft gasp from Erik, and said, “You can open your eyes now.” 

 

Erik picked up the edge of the shawl so he could get a closer look at it. “Where did you get this?” he asked, frowning. “The stitches are uneven here. I hope you didn’t pay too much for it.” 

 

“Actually, I made it myself.” Christine tried not to smile at the look of mortification that came over Erik’s face. She sat down beside him and started examining the shawl. “You were saying the stitches were uneven?”

 

“I said nothing— it’s perfect!” Erik buried his face in his hands to hide the guilty flush on his cheeks. “Please, forgive me. . .”

 

Christine laughed. “You’re forgiven.”

 

Erik slowly lowered his hands. “So, you made this for me?” 

 

“Of course.” Christine gave Erik a peck on the cheek. “So you’ll stay warm while you’re composing. This should keep you from shivering, even if the stitches are a bit uneven in places,” she added with a playful smile. 

 

“Erik does not deserve such a gift.”  
  
“Yes, you do.” Christine’s voice was gentle but firm. “You deserve to be loved and cared for like anybody else.” 

 

Erik hid his face again, and Christine knew he was wishing he had one of his masks on. “Erik is. . . not like anybody else.” 

 

“That’s true,” said Christine, startling Erik so much that he lifted his face from his hands. “You’re my husband. No one else can say that.” 

 

Erik frowned. “That’s not what I—”

  
“And you’re very talented,” Christine continued, raising her voice slightly. “No one can compose like you do. No one else has a voice like yours. No, you really aren’t like anybody else,” she said in a softer tone, reaching out with a gentle hand to touch Erik’s cheek. “And I love you so much.” 

 

Erik leaned into her touch like a cat desperate to be stroked. “My angel. . .”

 

“Ugly horror!” The parrot screeched, having finished his meal but still hungering for mischief. “Horror bird! Horror bird!” 

 

“Horror bird is right.” Christine started rubbing her temples. “This was a mistake.”

 

“Mistake, mistake!” The parrot chanted, bobbing up and down with excitement. “Mistake, mistake, mistake!” 

 

“Perhaps that can be our name for him.” Erik, who had been on the verge of tears, brightened considerably. “Mistake.”

  
  
The parrot squawked and flapped his wings. “Mistake, mistake!” 

 

Erik chirped, and the parrot chirped back at him. “He says he approves,” said Erik, turning back to face Christine, his expression dead serious. 

 

Christine sighed. “Oh, thank goodness. I was so worried.” 

 

After chattering with Mistake for a while, Erik crept off to his room to compose. When he emerged a few hours later, Christine was pleased to note that Erik wasn’t shivering as he usually did. Even so, Christine was surprised when Erik came to bed wearing the shawl over his pajamas. 

 

Christine yawned. “You’re wearing that to sleep?” 

 

Erik tensed. “Should I not?” He looked absurd, with the bright yellow shawl draped over his dark pajamas, but his expression was so anxious that Christine couldn’t bear to laugh at him.

 

“So long as you’re comfortable, dear,” said Christine with a reassuring smile. She yawned again. “Now, come here. I’m tired.” After a moment's hesitation, Erik laid down beside her, and Christine rewarded him with a gentle kiss. “Good night, Erik. I love you.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> god this fic is so fuckign stupid it was supposed to be SHORT... but who am i to deny myself any desire that crosses my pea brain


End file.
